


Caecitas

by redamant



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MTMTE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redamant/pseuds/redamant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[MTMTE #17 spoilers] Blindness is common in the final stages of cybercrosis, but that doesn't mean that Tailgate is okay with it.</p><p>(Caecitas - latin noun. Blindness. The inability to see because of injury, disease, or a congenital condition.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Cyclonus?”

Tailgate’s fingers twitch beseechingly before he can stop himself. He is terrified of the solitude his blindness has brought along. He can’t look for others like this, not in this state, and Cyclonus, in spite of his stillness, is a welcome company. The most welcome, in fact. There is no one else Tailgate would rather have by his side. Cyclonus doesn’t try to understand or sympathise or weep on his behalf; he just sits by the recharge slab and looks after him like some sort of Metrotitan, humming or commenting on inane things. But it has been some time since he heard his roommate and Tailgate is again scared of having been left to embrace the eternal sleep on his own.

A chair scraps against the floor; quiet footsteps echo in the room’s abysmal silence. They’re drawing closer. Tailgate’s fingers twitch again—can’t he control his body any longer, dammit?—and a clawed hand rests on top of his, warm and large and homely. The twitching recedes.

“Yes?”

That is a great voice to hear. Tailgate could listen to it forever, if he had forever to spare. But his life is coming to an end and so all he can do is revel in the rumbling sound for what little time he still has. Maybe in the Afterspark—if there is such a thing—Tailgate will be allowed to keep the memory of Cyclonus’ voice and how it rolls against his plating, deep and sure.

“Just checking.” He attempts to shrug and fails. “Making sure you’re still here.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Now rest.”

“I know, I know,” Tailgate says, feeling defeated for some reason. “I was just checking.”

A thumb starts tracing gentle circles on the back of his hand. It is the kindest gesture he has ever experienced in his short life. (He doesn’t count the six-million-year stasis. Hence, and as far as he is concerned, his life is short.) The display of affection, while modest, speaks volumes of Cyclonus. A reserved mech by nature, it is only logical to expect the warrior’s most affectionate moments to be fractionally less aloof than usual. Still, the affection is there—undeniable. Tailgate’s spark, regardless of any terminal fatigue it might feel, spins faster inside his chest.

“I hate the silence, you know? It’s just so  _big_  when you’re blind. It’s like—It crawls right under your plating. It’s a live thing and it’s disgusting and creepy.” He pauses, then pleads, “Describe the room to me.”

‘Again?’ Cyclonus asks, but his tone is complying.

“Yeah. I can’t stand being alone in the dark. It’s freaking me out a bit.”

Tailgate’s hand gets squeezed.

He concentrates on his fingers, on how each joint and hinge and cable should strain and flex and spring…and now he’s moving. His arm lifts, weakly and shakily. Groping air and getting tired in the process, Tailgate fishes for the familiar face. He knows it’s looming over him somewhere to his right, with its sharp angles and hollow cheeks; he just needs to find it.

With a soft clank, the side of his palm collides with what is, irrefutably, Cyclonus’ jaw. Tailgate tries to cup his face, attractive in an exotic way, but starts making a fuss because all of his strength seems to have left him abruptly and his arm isn’t responding the way it should. A strong hand takes his stubby one and holds it against the curve of Cyclonus’ mouth. Warm air hisses out through the parted lips. Tailgate’s limb is now dead weight and, if it weren’t for Cyclonus’ holding it in place, he suspects that his arm would have dropped unceremoniously long ago.

Cyclonus sighs again. It’s a miserable sound. “You should rest.”

“I’ll have plenty of time for that  _later_.” He spreads his fingers and Cyclonus’ sharp claws slide into the spaces in-between. “I’d rather hear you talk right now. Anything’s good. If you’ve got another topic, I don’t mind. The room isn’t very interesting, to be honest.”

Tailgate hasn’t left the room ever since they came back from Luna 1 and he will probably die in it. Everything seems to say so: his optics already gave up any pretence of functioning hours ago, his motor cortex is slowly giving out (his legs froze up once and for all immediately after he saved the day), and his memory comes and goes at random. Sometimes, Tailgate loses consciousness and when he wakes up, he believes that he is back on Cybertron, being brought online for the first time at some clinic whose name he never cared to learn. Then, when his memories snap into place once more, it’s back to reality. He wonders what is worse: not looking forward to a life of waste-disposing or abruptly knowing there is no life to look forward to.

There is a soft rumbling sound: the one Cyclonus makes when he is pondering something or responding absent-mindedly. Tailgate assumes it is the former. He would like to confirm, but he can’t freaking  _see_. Guessing will just have to do, he decides. It was never much different, anyhow. With Cyclonus, you have to guess nine times out of ten and take a leap of faith with the remaining one.

“I tire of talking at you,” the jet says. “I would rather talk to you.”

“So, talk to me,” Tailgate replies. “I’ll answer right back. My voice still works, you know?”

Cyclonus rumbles again, and Tailgate has the fleeting impression that his roommate is unwilling to let him do much more than lounge around. In case he exerts himself or something, he supposes. That just wouldn’t do. For some reason, Cyclonus thinks he must keep his strength. Who knows? Maybe being dead is exhausting. Cyclonus would know about that.

“A tale, perhaps, would be best.”

“Okay,” he says, slightly upset at the thought of hearing gruesome warrior sagas again. Every now and then is fine, even trapping, but he doesn’t want to think of things like that so close to his own death. “Is this another who-killed-who-first-and-how war story? Because I don’t think I’m in the mood for that.”

“It is about a soldier and his lover.”

“Oh.” Tailgate pauses. “I think I’d like that story. I like gushy stuff.”

Cyclonus makes a sound at the back of his throat and Tailgate is almost sure it’s purring. But with Cyclonus, you can never be sure.

“I know.”


	2. Chapter 2

The story is nothing like Tailgate has ever heard. It’s romantic and beautiful in a haunting kind of way. He tells Cyclonus as much and the mech simply replies that the truest of loves don’t fade, even after death. Tailgate guesses that’s Cyclonus’ way of saying that describing the tale as ‘haunting’ is appropriate.

He knows he dozed off several times during the narration, his spark too weak to endure keeping his systems up and running for more than a few minutes, only to wake up and find Cyclonus starting off right where he had stopped listening. Cyclonus doesn’t comment on Tailgate’s growing inability to remain awake or move; he just grunts and mumbles to himself in sinfully fluent Primal Vernacular. Naturally, Tailgate doesn’t understand a word.

It’s been a while since someone visited and Tailgate wonders if he has already been forgotten by the crew. He did his best to leave a mark, but maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe he should have died heroically like Rewind instead of fading quietly in his hab-suite with his partner sitting beside him. The moment he thinks that, he regrets it. An ashamed sound escapes him and Cyclonus shifts in his seat.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Tailgate answers. A suspicious silence follows his statement; he can feel Cyclonus’ glare sizing him up. “Really, it’s nothing. I was just thinking stupid stuff.”

“Do you ever think intelligent stuff?”

“Ha-ha, nice. I’ll come back and haunt your aft.”

“You won’t,” Cyclonus says. “Pure sparks are admitted entrance to the Afterspark the very moment they leave the physical world.”

“And who says I’ll pass?” He coughs violently for a bit. Talking has become harder, but that doesn’t deter him. “I’m not exactly a saint, right?”

Tailgate doesn’t like admitting it, not even to himself, but he’s a compulsive liar; he spins tales bigger than Rodimus’ ego. He seriously doubts Primus and his Guiding Hand will be too happy to have a deceiver like him in their little paradise.

Cyclonus rumbles quietly.

“Your lies were born, ironically enough, out of a desire to be trustworthy; not out of malign intent.” Sharp claws graze Tailgate’s mask. “Primus will accept you.”

Tailgate makes a small sound, trying to sound noncommittal. He wishes he had Cyclonus’ unwavering faith. With death knocking on his door, he’s desperate to find the peace of mind that the purple jet seems to exude.

Admittedly, Tailgate is more than okay with dying—Cyclonus is the one having trouble with that—but he can’t get over what comes after dying. Powering down for the last time isn’t frightening in the least; knowing that he’s plunging into an eternal darkness is what freezes him with terror. If he could believe in the Afterspark so profoundly, with the same intensity that Cyclonus does, then he would feel a lot better about the whole thing.

But Cyclonus has already told him that a solid faith doesn’t simply bloom out of your chest one day. Reaching such levels of personal conviction, of unwavering belief in something that no one has ever proved, takes millennia to achieve. Tailgate doesn’t even have a day.

“I’m kinda scared.”

“Of what?”

“ _Everything_.”

“Don’t be.”

“Easy for you to say,” Tailgate mumbles. “Can you hold my hand?”

“I am.”

“Ah.” Tailgate focuses on the end of his right arm; Cyclonus is sitting to his right so that must be the hand he’s holding. “Okay, um, I can’t feel my hand.”

Cyclonus grazes his mask again, this time with his knuckles. “Do you feel this?”

“Yeah.”

“Then tell me where I’m touching you.”

“U-uh—” For a moment, Tailgate can’t believe he still has strength to find non-existent innuendo in whatever Cyclonus says. “Face.”

“Good.” The air moves, he can hear it whoosh softly as Cyclonus repositions his hand. “Now?”

“The, uh....All right, no idea.”

“Abdomen,” Cyclonus informs him. “Lower abdominal plating.”

“Okay?”

His body doesn’t have enough power to heat up in embarrassed arousal, but his spark strains and thrums erratically inside his chest all the same. Cyclonus was never very physical and Tailgate certainly likes the attention his frame is getting, even if he’s oblivious to most of it. He can’t see or feel Cyclonus hands on him, but his emotions react as if he could.

A ticklish sensation along his left ankle gives him a clue as to where Cyclonus’ hands are now.

“Feet?”

“Almost.”

“Ankle.”

“Which one?”

“Left?”

“Yes,” Cyclonus says. He sounds relieved.

“You know? I like this game. It’d be cooler if I could see you but, yeah, I’m not complaining.”

It’s quiet after that. He doesn’t know if it’s because Cyclonus doesn’t answer or because he drifts off. When he wakes up again, Tailgate can feel Cyclonus’ thumb tracing patterns on his right hand. The return of his sensor-net is both welcome and unexpected. He decides to see if his locomotion is back as well, and manages to wiggle his fingers a little just to see how Cyclonus reacts.

The mech’s bigger hand freezes on top of his, and Tailgate seizes the opportunity to entwine their fingers. His movements are shaky and sloppy, but Cyclonus does nothing to stop Tailgate. In fact, he might even be cooperating—but Tailgate’s not about to tell on him.

Suddenly he’s being enveloped and the world moves around him as Cyclonus pulls him into his lap, soft purring reverberating across his massive chest. Tailgate squeaks and his hands fly to that chest; they clamp around its seams to steady his weak frame because he’s pretty sure that toppling off the jet would kill him, given his sorry state. Then again, Cyclonus would never drop him nor let him fall, so his grip loosens.

It’s shocking to realise how cold his body has grown. Pressed against Cyclonus, Tailgate feels as if the warmness radiating off the mech is actually burning him. He says nothing, though, and simply burrows closer, relishing in the rush of comfort and safety he gets. Cyclonus’ purring dwindles until it’s gone. Silence reigns in the room again.

Tailgate raises his head and brings both hands up to Cyclonus’ scarred face, memorising the contrasting roughness and sleekness of it under his fingertips. He wonders for an instant why Cyclonus felt the need to mar his delightfully unique complexion with those marks. Then his vents hitch and he leans forward, his forehead clinking softly against Cyclonus’ jawline. The jet shift his head and Tailgate instinctively moves to look up at him but sees nothing because he's blind. He's amazed at how easily he forgets. Cyclonus presses his lips against Tailgate's mask and they stay like that for a while.

“Don’t forget me,” Tailgate pleads at last.

Cyclonus runs his claws down his back, gentle but firm. “Never could.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Piece of awesomesauce that inspired the ending](http://fav.me/d6ajymw).


End file.
